


Golden

by Psilent (HereThereBeFic)



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 07:04:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2100090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HereThereBeFic/pseuds/Psilent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I just don't understand why they don't call it the <i>International Orange</i> Gate Bridge, that's all."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bendingthewillow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingthewillow/gifts).



> I tried to keep this pretty upbeat and focused on the theme of solidarity. That said:
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of a neglectful parent, mentions of a character very briefly being in a questionable therapy program. References to general ableism from allistic people. References to self-dx shaming.

It took a long time for them to actually talk about it. At first it was just - well, Arthur felt like maybe he recognized something in Martin, but he didn't want to _say_ anything because he was probably wrong or maybe he was right but Martin didn't _know_ yet and he didn't want to upset him, but whenever it was just the two of them and nothing too stressful was going on they'd get to chatting and sometimes Martin would realize how long he'd been talking and go sort of red and apologize, and Arthur always told him it was fine. Mostly Martin talked about planes. Arthur didn't retain much of it for very long - he'd been around planes long enough that he could kind of take them for granted. He didn't latch on to the information like he could when he took a sudden interest in something _new_.

He noticed the way Martin would often drag his hands along G-ERTI's seats as he walked past them (Arthur had never liked that particular sensation) or, especially after a long or bad job (but sometimes just when things were going fine), run his fingertips along the insides of his sleeves.

(Arthur still had the scraps of an old security blanket, small enough to keep in a pocket whenever he felt like it. It was much softer than a jacket's lining or an aeroplane seat and he wondered if Martin might like something like that. And then again, maybe he had something already – Mum was the only one who knew about the blanket, after all.)

After Qikiqitarjuaq, Arthur hung around the portacabin while Martin did paperwork. They'd run out of passengers before he'd run out of bear facts, so he told Martin most of the rest of them and saved a few (polar bears use snow to take baths!) for a rainy day (or a _snowy_ day). Martin didn't talk much, but he thanked Arthur for the help and it didn't sound like a joke, even though Arthur didn't do any of the paperwork.

It was his dad's fault the subject ever actually came up. Everything was going fine, Douglas had done something clever and they had G-ERTI back, exactly like Arthur _knew_ would happen all along, and when they finally landed back in Fitton Arthur thought maybe he could just go home and sleep through any emotional fallout.

Then Martin asked if he was okay.

Arthur said a lot of things he'd never planned on saying to anyone. He told Martin that he was diagnosed young because Dad could afford the good doctors, that Mum was the one who asked him if he actually enjoyed therapy and who pulled him from the program when he said no, that sometimes he wondered if she had waited so long to file for divorce because she was afraid Dad would start a custody battle out of spite.

That he's pretty sure she still would have had to fight harder for custody of G-ERTI than custody of him.

Martin told him about first becoming aware of psychologists as something other than television characters at age nineteen. He told him about school, about wishing there was a book on social interaction and friendship with all the answers in the back. He told him about the hours of research when he should have been sleeping, and the corners of the internet where "self-diagnosed" was an insult.

It wasn't a _fun_ conversation, but Arthur was glad, later, that it had happened.

He was especially glad about it on the flights where it was just him and Martin. It didn't happen much, because usually if there was a flight that only needed one pilot, it was Douglas, because Martin had van jobs to do. But sometimes he didn't, and Mum always jumped at the chance to send the pilot she didn't have to pay, and Martin -

Well, Martin always jumped at the chance to fly.

"I just don't understand why they don't call it the _International Orange_ Gate Bridge, that's all."

"Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, does it?"

"Nnno, not really. Still. It's sort of dishonest, isn't it? I mean, the first time I saw it, I thought we were flying over the wrong city!"

For the past week or so, Arthur had been intensely interested in painting. The conversation had wandered a bit.

It was a cargo flight, and cargo flights - or more specifically, cargo flights without Douglas - were always the best kinds of flights for conversations. Martin was a lot happier - and nicer - removed from crowds, and removed, especially, from Douglas.

"Hm." Martin tapped his fingers against a panel. "Well, you could always buy a model of it and _paint_ it gold."

Arthur grinned. "Oh, that's _brilliant,_ Skip! I hadn't thought of that. I'll have to ask Mum."

Martin didn't point out that Arthur was almost thirty years old and could buy himself a model of the Golden Gate Bridge without asking anyone for permission. Inasmuch as Arthur ever got tired of anything, he was a little bit tired of people pointing out his age and all the things they thought he should be able to do because of it. Martin knew this. Martin was tired of a lot of things.

"I might not even want to paint anymore by the time it gets delivered," Arthur mused. "But sometimes stuff comes back around! Do you ever want to paint, Skip? Or not, oh, you know what I mean, do you ever just want to know _everything about_ \- about a _thing_ , and _do_ everything about it, and - like with aeroplanes, I mean? Do you ever get _other_ things?"

Martin shrugged, and checked the instrument panel again. (He'd told Arthur he felt strange having conversations without looking at the person he was talking to, because his parents and teachers always told him to look people in the eye, so he'd gotten into the habit of pointedly looking at other things to let everyone know he _couldn't_ look them in the eye, because he was busy looking somewhere else. He did it less when they were alone, but he still did it.) "Special interests?"

"Yeah, those!" Martin's hours and hours of research meant that he knew loads and loads of terminology that Arthur had forgotten years ago. He usually forgot it again after Martin told him, but Martin never seemed to mind, and Arthur just liked the background reassurance that there  _were_ words for it all. He wasn't bothered much about what they were. "D'you get those?"

Martin hunched his shoulders. "Not really. I sort of... try not to."

"Why?"

"Wellll, you know, I mean... At least the, the - the way I am _now_ , I get to be... the aeroplane guy. The guy who's – obsessed with flying. If I - if I show up every week just as obsessed with something _new_ , I... I don't know." He laughed. "This is... the kind of strange I'm _used_ to _being_ , I guess. And I really _don't_ , you know, get into other things. ...Um. Often. I - I mean, _occasionally_. But. It's easy to just, sort of. Keep quiet about it."

Arthur blinked. Easy? He couldn't imagine just... just not _telling_ people about the things he learned. "Is it?"

"...No, actually. It, it kind of makes it hard to concentrate on anything else. It's like there's all this information clamoring around in my head and it won't quiet down unless I give it to someone else."

Arthur leaned on the back of what was normally Douglas's chair. "Well, you could always give it to _me,_ Skip! I wouldn't make fun of you, I promise."

Martin glanced at him and smiled. "I know you wouldn't." He looked back out at the sky. "Ugh. I'm sorry, Arthur, I know I'm awfully... closed off. I'm still getting used to - you know, _having_ someone else who... _knows._ What it's like."

Arthur shrugged. "That's all right. It is a little _weird,_ isn't it? _Good_ weird, though. I mean, I used to get to hang out with the other autistic kids at group appointments, but once I left I didn't really... see any of them again. There were a couple of other people in my class at Ipswich who I think might have been, but they never said anything, and I didn't ask them. People don't like being asked about that."

"No," Martin muttered. "No, people don't."

He didn't expand on that thought. He didn't need to. They both knew the lay of that land - the people who weren't felt insulted, and the people who were felt trapped and scared and _found out_. It was best to just leave the subject alone.

(That could make things awfully _lonely,_ though.

He was really,  _really_ glad of that not-fun conversation.)

"Did I ever tell you Dad was the one who taught me Yellow Car?"

"...No?  _Really_?"

"Yep!" Arthur smiled wistfully at the memory. "I used to get nervous in the car, all the noises and the moving and everything, not like on a plane where you can hardly tell most of the time, and Dad told me to watch for yellow cars so maybe I wouldn't notice everything else so much. I mean, when I got older, he tried to get me to stop playing it, and Mum was the one who would join in, but still."

"Still... what?"

"Oh, I dunno. I like that he taught me. I mean. He's not... He was never really much of a dad. He didn't do very many... dad things. But he taught me a car game. I like that."

Martin nodded, slowly. "I... I think I understand."

Arthur stood up straight. "I'm  _really_ glad we both - know about this. It's sort of... Well, it's just  _nice_ , isn't it?"

Martin hummed in agreement, smiling down at the console. "Yeah, it - it really is." Without seeming to notice, he slid one hand far enough up his sleeve to rub the lining, and Arthur suddenly made up his mind.

"Skip?"

"Yes?"

"I've got - I mean, it's, it's only... I've got some bits of a blanket I had when I was a kid. It's - it's _really_ soft, and sometimes I keep it in my pocket. I was only - well, I wondered - d'you maybe want a piece of it?"

Martin went very still. Arthur was afraid for a moment he'd said something horribly wrong, but then ATC came over the line to confirm their landing site, and Martin shook himself and responded and then turned to face Arthur and he was  _smiling_ again, smiling very big.

"I'd... I'd like that, Arthur. I'd like that a lot. Thank you."

Arthur grinned back at him. "Brilliant."


End file.
